


Without His Binder

by ChelBlue



Category: Eddsworld - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Gender Dysphoria, Trans Male Character, Transgender Tord, trans tord
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-15
Updated: 2017-10-15
Packaged: 2019-01-17 15:43:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12368901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChelBlue/pseuds/ChelBlue
Summary: Tord gets a visit from his old friend gender dysphoria because his binder was taken away.





	Without His Binder

The first thing Tord took note of was his pounding headache. It made it hard to think. He blinked, squinting to allow his eyes to adjust to the bright lights. Were the base lights always so bright? Why was he sleeping with the lights on? When his eyes adjusted he saw he wasn’t in his room, or even in Tom’s room. He was staring at the unmistakably ceiling of the army’s infirmary. He’d been there plenty before, usually only for minor mistakes. Looking at the stuff hooked up to him it looked like whatever he did was more than a minor mistake. 

He had an IV attached to his working arm, his left. That arm had several bandages wrapped around it. His entire right arm was bandaged, and he couldn’t feel it. He grimaced, glancing at the robotic replacement sitting on the bedside table. He’d already come to the conclusion he’d need a new one. 

Looking at the arm jogged his memory, and the events of his visit to Edd returned to him. Right. He had failed to retrieve his robot, hadn’t he? It blew up in his face in a literal sense. And now he suffered the consequences, being confined to this hospital bed for far too long. 

Despite knowing it to be unwise, Tord tried to sit up. Using his only good arm, he pushed himself up. He felt his entire body ache in protest to the action, but he continued anyway until he was fully vertical. It was then he noticed something rather alarming: his binder wasn’t on. Normally, had he not been distracted by his headache or wounds, it would have been the first thing he’d felt. He was fortunate to not have noticed it early. Now knowing he didn’t have it on, knowing that he was a good as a chick now, made his stomach become heavy. 

Tord reached to the bedside table for the phone left for him, and dialled up Paul and Patryk, his two right hand men and the ones likely responsible for the removal of his binder. They were always too worried about shit like that, or at least, he would think they would be. Tord had never really told them about the whole.. Trans thing. It never came up, and it was the least important thing about him, in Tord’s eyes. The less he had to talk about it the happier he was. And Paul and Patryk had a tendency to worry too much about him; they were the overprotective parents he never wanted. They’d worry about whether he was sleeping in his binder, or wearing it too soon after an injury, or if he was taking the hormones safely enough. It’d be miserable.

The phone rang twice before someone picked up, the click bringing Tord back from his thoughts.

“Did you take my binder?” Tord asked, struggling to get the word binder out. He hated talking about it. He wish he didn’t have to use it. He was going to get top surgery a few years ago, but didn’t in favor of using the funds for his army instead. He regretted it every time he took a shower or looked himself in the mirror, but personal sacrifices have to be made for the greater good. There isn’t time to dwell on your self image when you’re leading a revolution anyway. 

In the following weeks, though, he wouldn’t have much else to do than reflect. He couldn’t do much more than paperwork without the use of his other arm, not that it mattered. He’d likely be confined to this bed for weeks. Long enough for him to drive himself up a wall with thoughts of anxiety and dysphoria. God he hoped he could get his binder back. Even if it was torn and soaked with blood he’d still gladly wear it.

“Binder?” Patryk’s voice responded through the phone. He sounded confused, like he didn’t know what a binder was. Tord didn’t really buy it - Patryk should be smart enough to figure out what he was talking about. It was the only unconventional piece of clothing he had on. 

“The thing that goes on my chest,” he explained impatiently. He wasn’t going to wait for Pat to play dumb only to have him have to explain it later. He tried to ignore the obvious weight on his chest that he’d reminded himself of. In a lot of ways, it was worse than the headache. At least the pain in his skull could be resolved by a few pills. Patryk let out a soft ‘ohh’. 

“That. Right. I did.” Patryk replied. Tord’s suspicion was confirmed.

“Can I have it back?” It was more of a demand than a question, especially coming from him, Patryk’s boss. Tord sounded incredibly unhappy in that moment, nearly angry. He was sure Pat could sense his discomfort and impatience. Whether or not Patryk was persuaded by it was another thing entirely.

“The doctors said it’d be best you keep it off for a while while you heal. At least until you get your arm off,” Patryk informed him in such a motherly tone it hurt. He was only looking out for him, Tord knew that, but he didn’t much care. He wanted that binder back. He felt almost like he couldn’t breathe. 

“I don’t care what the doctors say,” Tord replied, his grip on the phone tightening. “Bring it to me,” 

“I can’t do that, sir.” Patryk replied respectfully.

“I believe you can. Bring me the binder or I’ll come get it myself.” Tord threatened, already planning out where he’d search for the piece of cloth. He shifted a leg off the bed. Thankfully his legs weren’t injured much in the crash, so he could probably stand with ease, if Pat didn’t comply at least.

“I’ll send Paul with it, okay?” Patryk sighed, hanging up the phone. Tord lied back, to relax from the stress of not having his binder any time soon, before deciding rather quickly that position made his chest far too pronounced. Instead he scooted backward until his back was against the wall before slouching. This position was much better. In the following minutes he tried to think of things aside from himself.

It had been ages since he’d had to go without his binder, even if it was only going to be for a few minutes, not counting the hours (or days, he had no idea) he was out. He’d managed to rip his binder while he was living with Edd and his other friends, and as a result refused to leave his room for a few days while he waited for a replacement to come through the post. It was an ugly few days spent mostly loathing himself and his body. For those few days Tori was back, and right now too, Tori was back. Without his binder he was as good as her. Without his binder he couldn’t be Tord. It made him sick. He wished more than anything that Tori never was, that he was always Tord, that there was a dick between his legs rather than the piece of junk he did have, that his chest was flat, that he’d never have to feel like he was a mistake, a fuckup on the part of god. 

The door opened, and Tord looked up. Paul was empty handed, as far as Tord could tell. He didn’t like that. “Where is it?” 

“Don’t have it,” Paul replied, taking a seat in one of the chairs the room housed. He seemed relaxed, laid back. On his back was his gun, and in his mouth a cigarette, which he took a drag on. “I’m here to make sure you don’t try anything,” 

“Are you fucking..” Tord mumbled, dropping his head into his working hand. He needed that binder back. They didn’t get it. He didn’t want Tori to come back. Tord looked up again at his soldier. “Paul, I order you to get me my binder,” Tord demanded through gritted teeth. He swore he was shaking now. He had to be, just a bit.

“It’s in the wash,” Paul excused. Tord hated how laid back he looked, when he himself was trying to keep himself from slipping into the unproductivity and miserableness of dysphoria. Arguing with them was futile, it always was. He could always ask later, maybe in a few hours. Or when they had to sleep he could get up and search. He could wait, right? It was just his binder. He didn’t need his binder to be Tord. Despite any reassurances he gave himself he could still feel the ghost of Tori sneaking up behind him, followed by a wave of self loathing, should he dwell on this much longer.

“Can I have my paperwork?” Tord asked, more pitiful than angry. If he was doing paperwork there was no time to think about what he had or did not have. And he was sure plenty accumulated during his absence to keep him busy until he could return to his normal duties, which he hoped was soon. 

Paul seemed to mull it over for a second before replying. “Sure,” he replied, pulling out his phone to text Patryk to bring it to him. Of fucking course, they won’t leave him alone for even a moment. He shouldn’t have threatened to get it himself. In the wait for Patryk and his paperwork Paul sat silently, with no probing or questions asked, though he was sure he had them. Patryk was always more of the interrogator type than Paul. Paul was quiet, and Tord could appreciate that.

Patryk arrived shortly with a sizable stack of papers along with a pen and a book to write on, or read if he really wanted to. Tord took the items gladly, eager to have something beside thinking to do. He began to leaf through the papers, getting the gist of the stuff he was about to read and sign, or send back for review. It was all boring shit, stuff he’d usually dread. Reaching the end of the stack he glanced up again to see that Patryk was yet to leave. He had that look he always got before he started asking questions. Tord felt a wave of dread wash over him.

“How do you feel?” Patryk asked. He was starting easy; Tord could tell. Ease him into the interrogation session. Go in too fast or too strong and Tord was more likely to argue and bicker. Even knowing the tactic, he knew he fell prey to it every time.

“Fine,” Tord lied. His head was still throbbing, and he still didn’t have his binder. That’s not what he’d call fine, but it was much better than spilling his feelings out about how much he wanted that binder. Patryk frowned, but made no comment on his response.

“What happened?” he asked in reference to the events leading to his current injuries. Tord shrugged. 

“Got shot down,” Tord replied, thinking back to the harpoon. Fuck Tom, ruining this. He could always build another, but it was much more convenient to return home for a bit and snag his old one. In directly, he mused, it was Tom’s fault he didn’t have his binder.

“Oh?” Tord didn’t respond to the obvious que to provide more details. It was quiet for a few moments, a time that would be uncomfortable to most. It was the calm before the storm.

“Why didn’t you tell us?” Patryk’s voice was gentle and kind, as unthreatening as he could sound. He wasn’t trying to make Tord uncomfortable, but he was. Tord would play dumb but all it’d do was delay the inevitable - a waste of time. The sooner he didn’t have to say anything the better.

“It isn’t important,” Tord replied. He was trying to hold eye contact, to not look weak. This shouldn’t be a big deal. This shouldn’t change anything. If it did, he still held power above them. He was going ot be fine, so he held eye contact.

“It isn’t important?” he repeated, almost offended at that answer. “It seems important to me.”

“It’s not important.” Tord emphasized. He felt sick. His chest was so heavy, so evidently there and so clearly out of place. It made him feel sick. Having tits wasn’t important to Tord. Nor was having a vagina. Those were footnotes on the very last page of his life. 

“Okay,” Patryk withdrew. He’d noticed the look on Tord’s face, the obvious discomfort that he tried so hard to hide. He was distressed and unhappy and Patryk was going to leave him alone for the time being. He can ask more questions when he could put his binder back on. It was quiet again for several minutes.

“You know, if you sit still these next few days I bet you can convince the doctors to let you put your binder back on,” Patryk offered lightly. He had an awkward smile, as he was trying to lighten the mood a bit. Tord only hummed in response.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed! Please tell me if anything is glaringly wrong.   
> Critique welcome and wanted!
> 
> This is,, bad. Kind of rushed ending - I think you can tell.
> 
> Check out my tumblr! chel-blue.tumblr.com


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